


moonlight

by ghermez



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M, kissing can be quite enough really, my kink is osamu's hips, sakusa is so touch starved i cannot, use the fucking handtowel i bought you babe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-14 17:00:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29049549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghermez/pseuds/ghermez
Summary: He is hungry and devouring and loving, and Kiyoomi is helpless in the face of Miya Osamu's devotion.or: sakusa kiyoomi hates osamu's useless fucking window.
Relationships: Miya Osamu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 14
Kudos: 64
Collections: 🐶🍙 omigiri fanfic collection





	moonlight

**Author's Note:**

> hey, hi, I recorded this fic and you can [check it out at this link.](https://drive.google.com/file/d/1BGTIr06LEcaOJq98kKQJc_0f7SYpMxBT/view?usp=drivesdk)

“Your window is useless,” Kiyoomi comments absently as stands in Osamu's room, eyes gazing out- and up-ward trying to find the moon, but as he declared: it’s futile.

“It’s a good window. Don’t hurt its feelings.”

Kiyoomi bites the inside of his mouth to keep from smiling. “That’s not funny. Your window doesn’t have feelings.”

Osamu pats his hands dry over his sweatpants instead of using the perfectly dry towel that Kiyoomi had hung by the bathroom door. He refrains from mentioning it, however, since he can’t even begin to decipher his boyfriend.

“Sure does, and you just hurt ‘em.”

He rolls his eyes. “Inane conversation aside. I’m serious. It doesn’t even have a view. All you see is your neighbor’s house.”

Osamu’s face does that thing where his lips purse to one side, eyebrows all wrinkled like he is puzzling over a math problem. “What would I do with a view? I hardly open it.”

Kiyoomi sighs. “That’s not healthy. You need to air out the place every day.” As he says it, Kiyoomi knows deep down Osamu won’t (can’t), not with his busy work schedule. But still. Somewhere, deep within him, aches at the thought of Osamu, face squished against the pillow, inhaling dust motes and dead skin cells. To distract from the alarming softening in his belly, Kiyoomi watches Osamu move to the little mirror and side table. He is rummaging through the drawer—the one he doesn’t allow anyone to tidy-up.

(“Even me?” “Especially you,” Osamu had responded, then kissed his forehead. Kiyoomi had been consoled by the kiss and ever since, he’d respected the sanctity of that messy-ass junk drawer.)

His hand emerges from the depths with a comb.

Kiyoomi watches Osamu reach for a tube, squeezing out a dollop, then rubbing it between the very tips of his fingers. He runs them through his hair. It makes him look…honestly, breathtaking. Hair slicked back like that. He looks like a movie star from the eighties. Kiyoomi's heart decidedly beats faster.

“Goin’ somewhere?”

Osamu smiles, eyes on his reflection. “It helps keeping my hair from frizzing.”

Kiyoomi’s mouth twists, amused. “Hm. Didn’t know your hair frizzed.”

Osamu raises an eyebrow like. _See? It clearly works._ Kiyoomi wants to bite his face.

He shouldn’t. But… Osamu is freshly showered. His skin a little flushed from the hot water. His hair, however, is dried properly, not a drop on his skin.

Still.

Kiyoomi eyes the tanned column of Osamu's neck and wonders how he might react if he bit him or, worse, licked him.

“What’re you thinkin’ of so intently?”

 _You_ , Kiyoomi thinks but doesn’t say, because admitting that would be shouting the fact that he cannot for the life of him think of anything else when Osamu fills the room with all of his…Osamu-ness. Instead, he lifts one shoulder in a shrug.

Osamu gives him a look, like he’s thinking that _Kiyoomi should go over there and slant his mouth over Osamu's neck and take that mouthful he’s been thinking of since he’d woken up from a dream starring Osamu's thighs._

Kiyoomi could seriously burn with fury towards Osamu for reading him with a look, but it is a certain comfort to be known. To be allowed to walk into someone’s personal space, to trust that they welcome him; want him, even.

Before they began dating, Kiyoomi had convinced himself he was better off _looking_. Standing in Osamu's room, he scoffs at his past self.

Now, he can’t bear the thought of not existing here, walking into Osamu's warmth, breathing in his shampoo, and running his cool hands under his shirt. He loves the shiver raking Osamu's body. We sizzle, he thinks inanely.

Osamu huffs but doesn’t shift, keeping his hands by his side like Kiyoomi likes. Like the good boyfriend he is; Osamu knows he needs this, needs the knowledge that he can reacquaint himself with Osamu's body without interruption.

(“Will I be allowed to touch you back?” Osamu had asked that first time Kiyoomi asked if he could have this. And Kiyoomi had kissed “Eventually” into Osamu's neck. Osamu had shivered with the promise but never pushed for it.)

This isn’t to say that Kiyoomi is selfish. Far from it. He just prefers to be the first to move, to nip at an earlobe, to murmur a soft ‘hi’ at the crook between neck and shoulder, to wrap his arms around hips, sighing in relish of the constant familiarity of Osamu's pajama top.

It’s addictive, the kind of comfort that exists in the threads of an old shirt.

And there is love in watching Osamu come apart, piece by piece. First, his legs spread to accommodate Kiyoomi's thigh between them, then his shoulders relax and push back, offering his chest for Kiyoomi's roaming never-warm hands, and finally, his neck is offered for Kiyoomi's mouth.

Having Osamu, a gift, presented to him over and over and over never grows old. Every opportunity is cherished, every surrender sneaking under his skin, getting comfortable between his ribs.

Kiyoomi's palms follow the indulgent curve of Osamu's belly to his back, gripping those love-handles in a manner that could be best described as worshipful.

Osamu sighs, his heartbeat quickening under Kiyoomi's tongue. So, he kisses him there. Right where he is most honest.

 _Your heart desires me,_ Kiyoomi thinks.

Osamu's eyes flutter open. “Just kiss me already.”

He smiles. “That’s not so polite.”

“You hurt my window’s feelings. Kiss me now.”

“Tsk. Bossy.”

“You like it.”

“I do.”

Their mouths touch, one in slow movements against another that’s barely holding back its bite.

Figures that a man raised to want seconds and thirds kisses like a starving man discovering rice, and it never fails to make Kiyoomi smile to be wanted so daringly. So, he lets Osamu take from him all he likes. Likes the way Osamu nips his lower lip, then licks into his mouth, tongue languid and hurried all at once, like it’s at war with itself.

“Easy, easy,” he murmurs between kisses. Words pressed against Osamu's lower lip. _I’m not going anywhere. I promise._

 _Like hell I’d even let you._ Osamu clicks his tongue then nips Kiyoomi's upper lip. “It’s been a whole week since I’ve had you in my mouth.”

Kiyoomi lifts one hand and rests his thumb at Osamu's dimpled chin. “Did you miss my taste?”

“So fucking much.”

If he has to choose a favorite Osamu, Kiyoomi chooses this. The burning honesty. The unrepentant lust. Eyes like ash and as hot as a forest fire.

“Then kiss me.”

Osamu rolls his eyes at Kiyoomi's use of his earlier command.

But he doesn’t need to be told twice. Hands are clenched into tight fists, but still at his sides, Osamu kisses him. Mouth, chin, and nose, all moving in inharmonious harmony. He is hungry and devouring and loving, and Kiyoomi is helpless in the face of Miya Osamu's devotion.

After a second, bitten lips and blazing cheeks, he says, “Touch me, Osamu.”

The hands on him are big and calloused, and he shudders at the thumb going to his right nipple. He hums when its touch turns feathery, careful; moans when his tongue is sucked, lips soothed. He is being drowned. He never wants to surface.

Osamu is his ocean, insatiable and relentless.

Kiyoomi loves him. Down to the very demanding toes.

*

“I stand by what I said. Your window is useless.”

“Again, with the mean talk, Kiyoomi-san?” Osamu says, tone light, sleepy even. He always gets tired after sex.

Kiyoomi turns his head. The susurrus of his curls moving against Osamu's skin is addictive. “The moon. It can’t shine into the room at all.”

Osamu opens one eye, looks down at him. “What do you need the moon for? You got me.”

He swats Osamu's chest. “Cheesy motherfucker. It’s to see you better.”

Now, Osamu blinks both eyes open. “Wait, are you telling me we coulda had sex with the lights on all along?”

“No fucking way. But…”

“Oh.”

Well, that’s alarming.

Before Kiyoomi can backtrack, Osamu says, gleeful, “You wanna fuck with moonlight shining on my ass?”

He’s laughing. Not at _him_ but it still stings. Osamu seems to read the twinge of hurt in Kiyoomi's expression despite him having grown up with what everyone, from classmates to teachers, to coaches, called an unknowable face, and leans down to kiss Kiyoomi's forehead.

The ache is suddenly nowhere to be found.

Dangerous things were Osamu's forehead kisses.

“Maybe I’ll find a new apartment, one that has a big window,” Osamu says, sleep thickening his voice.

And quietly, Kiyoomi confesses, “Maybe I’ll come live with you there.”

“Of course, darling,” Osamu says sleepily, his words deadly and utterly predictable.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> i'm on twitter as [@spikingtit](https://twitter.com/spikingtit)


End file.
